Death Walk
by Amry
Summary: The first ever Death NoteAmerica's Next Top Model crossover! Light Yagami wants to win ANTM and become a fashion god, but can he beat out the competition from the world famous Wammy House modeling agency? [crack, if you couldn't tell] [CHAPTER 2 IS UP]
1. Week One: Introductions

[Crack. Sheer, unadulterated crack. I own nothing. All Mikami/Tyra shippers will be given free cookies.

"Camera rolling in 5… 4…"

Light Yagami flicked a stray strand of impeccably styled hair out of one clear brown eye, turning on his camera face: small smile, lazy posture, looking just over the eye level of the imaginary audience; the perfect model, confident, poised, and beautiful.

The interviewer had been carefully selected – pretty, but just plain enough to emphasize Light's incredible good looks; casually dressed, but just primped enough to make Light look breezy and relaxed. She had her own camera smile switched on, and somehow managed to hold it as she asked, "Light, why did you decide to enter America's Next Top Model?"

Light answered with no hesitation. "Today's fashion industry is completely rotten," he said. "It's overrun with second-class models and wannabe high-fashion designers; _plus-size styles,_ of all things. I'm going to win this competition and use my influence to purge the modeling world of all this refuse parading itself as fashion. I'll be a fashion god." He smiled, and a highly-trained eye would have been able to see the smirk hidden under the perfectly placed dimples.

The interviewer merely smiled back, treating everything he said lightly as they had told her to do. _"He's a little odd, this guy," _they'd told her as she'd prepped for the show. _"A top-notch model, but don't let anything heavy he says get to the audience, okay? Keep the questions coming, and if he gets scary, wrap it up quick."_

"Very interesting, Light," she said cheerfully. "Which of your qualities do you think will impress the judges most?"

Light looked at her almost sympathetically, as if he knew that she was only asking this question because it was on her list, not because she couldn't see the obvious answer. "I am the best. There's no competition. I will beat them all out… _and be a fashion god_."

The studio room was comfortably decorated with squashy designer couches and tasteful abstract paintings in color-coordinated frames. A television took up much of the far wall. The five judges sat in semi-circle facing the screen, where Light's interview audition tape was playing.

"_I always knew I wanted to be a model," _he said, the appropriate tinge of smiley nostalgia in his voice. _"I mean, my father heads the largest modeling agency in all Japan. Not that I think that'll give me any edge in the competition or anything – I don't need an edge." _He and the interviewer laughed, though both knew he wasn't being sarcastic.

Tyra Banks raised one eyebrow. "Confident, isn't he?"

"Good-looking, though," said an older man settled into the lime-green couch cushions. His bushy mustache moved as he spoke. "I've heard of his father, Souichirou. He runs an excellent agency."

"High praise coming from you, Mr. Wammy," Tyra said.

Mr. Wammy shook his head. "Watari, if you please. It sounds egotistical enough to put my name on my own agency without advertising it." _Besides which, _he thought, _"The Wammy House" looks good enough on fashion-show programs, but it might just be the silliest name in existence._

A tall, dark man with a fixed grin leaned forward to take a closer look at Light's face. His leather clothes, designed to look as though they'd been sewn into his skin, pulled up to reveal thick gold chains encircling his waist. "I like him," he laughed. "He'd look good in some of yours, eh, Rem?"

A solemn woman just as tall but dressed in whites and ice-blues, as though to contrast the man's Gothic taste, nodded. "Yours, too, though, Ryuk. He'd look good in a lot, actually – high fashion, yes, but simple magazine photos, too."

"The question is," Tyra said, looking seriously at the other judges, "_Can he walk_?"

They all pondered.

"I say we give him a shot," Wammy said after a moment. "He's definitely got the look."

Ryuk laughed. "I wanna see what this kid can do. I say put him in."

Rem considered, then said, "Put him in, and if can't walk we can always eliminate him. But I agree he has the right look."

All four turned to the last judge, silent until now. "Mogi?" Tyra said. "What do you think?"

Mogi, a huge, imposing man with a square jaw and heavy muscles, bit his lip, looked at the screen once more, and nodded.

Tyra picked up the remote, switched off the TV, and circled Light Yagami's name on a list in front of her. "Okay, then. He's in. That's our last contestant – good job, guys!"

Mogi leaned over and picked up the list. Ten names out of twenty were circled. He wondered to himself which one would last the rigors of America's Next Top Model to take their place at the top of the fashion industry. Would it be this Light Yagami, with his perfect looks, good background, and unquenchable ego? Would it be Misa Amane, experienced but still waiting for her big break? Would it be Mello or Near or Matt or L, students of the omnipotent Wammy House? Or one of the unknowns – Kiyomi Takada, Naomi Misora, Raye Penber, or Teru Mikami (he'd been a lawyer before auditioning – Heaven only knew how he'd gotten in)? _The thing about fashion,_ he thought, _is that you never know who's going to make it._

He handed the list back to Tyra. She took it, folded it, and stood, inviting the others to do the same. "Well," she said, "Time to start another season."

The judges filed out of the room, ready to confront the twenty hopefuls in the room beyond.

"Dammit, what is _taking_ them so long?" Mello checked his watch for the fifteenth time that hour, half to see what time it was and half to admire the way the studio lights played over the diamond-studded face. "Our interviews weren't more than five minutes each!"

"Cool it. You'll make it." Matt leaned against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. He wore the dark sunglasses that he had single-handedly brought into vogue for a whole season the year before and the striped shirt he refused to believe had gone out of fashion in the fall. "You, me, L, and Near'll all make it. They can't refuse Wammy House models."

Mello glared at him. "Then why'd you leave Linda out?"

"Gotta face facts – she's a sweet girl, but have you noticed that even the lawyer looks less working-class than she does?"

Mello glanced at Linda, chewing the ends of her braids anxiously. "Yeah, you're right." He turned away and rested his head against the wall, trying to stop from pacing the room or biting his nails or in any way showing that his stomach felt like it was going to crawl out of his throat and runway-walk clean out the door. Even the catwalk wasn't this bad.

_Of course,_ he thought bitterly, _On the catwalk at least Near's behind a curtain when I'm walking. Not right in front of me, looking so calm I just want to kill him—_

"Hey, you wanna let go of that drapery? It looks designer."

Mello opened his eyes. He had a fistful of silk drapery in his right hand and marks on his black leather gloves from where he had apparently dragged his hand down the wall without realizing it. "Sorry," he muttered, releasing it. He hoped no one had noticed. With a deep sigh he sat down next to Matt's feet and crossed his arms, forcing himself not to play with the carpet hairs.

Across the room, Light Yagami stood a little apart from the rest, watching them all with his signature not-quite-smirk spread across his face. He had already pinpointed his competition, and so far he was less than impressed. _Me. The four Wammy House guys. The blonde, even though she looks like a sub-par Japanese daytime TV actress. The lawyer. Those other women… Takada and Misora, I think their names were. And Misora's boyfriend._ He had been sizing them all up for the better part of two hours now, and thought he had a pretty good picture of who stood where, talent-wise. Of course, there was no telling before they got in front of the cameras.

Bored, he glanced down to check his watch – and nearly jumped out of his skin. One of the Wammy House models was crouched practically on top his feet, index finger in his mouth, watching the group with much the same expression of concentration that Light had worn as he had compared them earlier. Light tried to take a step back, forgetting that the wall was behind him, and nearly toppled over the man in front of him, who appeared not to notice.

Trying to regain some semblance of composure, Light scowled down at the Wammy model, hurriedly straightening his shirt. "Excuse me," he said, trying not to snap the words and almost succeeding, "Would you mind looking where you're sitting?"

The man blinked, startled out of deep thought, and looked over his shoulder up at Light. "Sorry," he said. "You can see them all the best from here. Who do you think is going to make it?"

Light was caught off-guard by the sudden question, but was smart enough not to reveal his own ideas about the competition. "I don't know," he said. "They all look so talented."

The Wammy model dropped his index finger from his mouth. "You'll make it," he said. "I'll make it, the three other Wammy House men will make it, Misa Amane will make it, and Kiyomi Takada, Teru Mikami, Raye Penber, and Naomi Misora will make it. And I predict that the Wammy House models and you will be the ones to make it to the top five. I'm L, by the way. A pleasure to meet you, Light Yagami." He turned back around, his finger already back in his mouth.

Light took a moment to get his brain working again. _He is good. Oh my god, he is GOOD. _He took a closer look at L, suddenly actually interested in him.

_He just screams Wammy, _Light thought with slight distaste. _The single name, the almost annoyingly simple clothes… I haven't seen him before, though… _No, he would have remembered those jeans. If nothing else, this L was daring – to wear something that baggy when skinny jeans were so hot spoke a lot about his confidence in himself as a model. Or his complete ignorance of current trends. One or the other. His hair was artfully tousled and he wore eyeliner smudged to give him an air of fatigue, though his expression was alert. Light thought his bitten-down nails and bad posture unprofessional; but he'd seen people change completely once they got on the runway. Maybe he was one of those.

L, for his part, was simply letting his mind wander at this point. He'd decided who would go on and he trusted his judgment. And he knew he would win. He was top of the student class at the Wammy House, the largest and best-known modeling agency in the world. He had looks like no other working model's. And on top of it, he had a brain, something that few outside the Wammy House elite could boast.

He frowned a little, feeling Light Yagami's eyes on his back. Light had acted perfectly innocent, but L suspected that he knew more than he let on – most others would have made some comment about their own thoughts after L's prediction or gotten defensive about their own chances. Light hadn't said anything. And now he was watching, surely with eyes narrowed, maybe even with that famous almost-smirk. L pretended he didn't notice and resumed letting his thoughts wander. Whatever happened, he knew he was right and he knew he would win. Light Yagami didn't matter.

Every model looked up as the tall door leading from the judges' room swung open. Tyra, Watari, Ryuk, Rem, and Mogi stepped in and spread out into a line, Tyra in the center. The models moved closer, each trying not to look too eager. Only Light, L, and the white-haired Wammy House model Light vaguely remembered was called Near remained where they were.

Tyra held the list of circled names in her hands. She looked at them all solemnly, her curly dark hair tumbling around her shoulders. "We've rounded it down to ten contestants," she said. "You're all very accomplished models, and it was a tough choice – but only ten can compete in this season of America's Next Top Model."

Light forced his smirk down. _Get on with it_, he thought.

"The contestants are:

"Misa Amane." The blonde squealed and jumped up and down, her black miniskirt giving every straight man in the room something to think about, and ran to stand beside the judges.

"Teru Mikami." The lawyer straightened his glasses and joined Misa.

"Raye Penber." He gave Naomi a kiss and followed Mikami.

"Naomi Misora.

"Kiyomi Takada.

"Mello.

"Matt.

"Near.

"L.

"And Light Yagami."

Light could not stop his trademark smile from spreading across his face. This time, only L and Near managed to remain impassive as they took their places with the other selected contestants. Matt shot Linda a sympathetic glance from his honored place by the judges as she tearfully followed the rest of the rejects out of the room.

Tyra smiled broadly at the ten. "Congratulations to all of you. A life-changing experience awaits you here - over ten weeks of fierce competition, you must fight to decide who is… _America's Next Top Model_."

Even though they knew the words were scripted, none could prevent a small shiver of excitement at the thought of winning.

"Because we've opened the contest to male _and_ female models this year, the stakes are a little different than previous years'. Instead of the usual Covergirl contract, you are now competing to win a permanent contract with the world-famous Wammy House modeling agency; and the last two contestants will compete for the winning spot in their annual Tokyo fashion show."

Misa covered her mouth with her hands and wiggled in place. "Misa went there once!" she cried. "Ooh, it would be so amazing if Misa won!"

Teru Mikami frowned. "Excuse me. But aren't the four of them—" he indicated L, Near, Mello, and Matt— "already contracted with the Wammy House?"

Near shook his head and spoke for the first time since any of them had seen him. "We're prospects. This is as much a competition for us as for the rest of you."

Mello scowled. _Way to remind me, _he thought. _Damn it, Near, I will beat you. I will get that contract. And even if I don't, I'll sure as hell make it farther in this competition than you. Stupid little baby-faced gimp… too damn short to be a model, too damn fat, and you still beat me in everything! _

Matt heard Mello's teeth grinding from next to him and sighed. He surreptitiously ground the heel of his boot into Mello's toes until the blonde gasped and returned his facial expression to normal.

Tyra watched them with one eyebrow delicately raised. When she was sure they were all in control of themselves, she continued, "The competition starts in three days. Go to the house, unpack, arrange your rooms, and be ready in seven hours to meet your judges and show us what you've got. See you all later." She swept out of the room, followed by Watari, Rem, and Mogi in single file. Only Ryuk lingered as the ten chosen followed the rest of the judges out.

The tall man joined Light at the back of the line, his broad shoulders almost brushing the door frame as he caught up to him. "Hey, Yagami," he said in a raspy whisper.

Light slowed down. "Yeah?"

Ryuk laughed. This one would be easy to manipulate. "Hold up and let me tell you something." Light stopped and turned back to Ryuk, puzzlement and interest in his eyes.

"I've been judging this competition for three years," Ryuk said. "To be honest, it's really, really boring watching all these idiots try and fail year after year. But I like you. You've got a quality all the rest of them didn't. Don't." _A ridiculous ego and a laughably impossible goal. _"I dunno; there's just something about you. I wanna help you."

Light looked at him suspiciously. "How?"

"I got something that'll take you straight to the top, should you choose to use it. It's called… the _Death Walk_."

"The _what_?"

"Here." Ryuk reached into a hidden pocket and pulled out a slim black notebook. "Here's what you do: you write the name of a model into this notebook. It has to be a model. Doesn't work on normal people. And then you specify a time and a place. And that model will have an accident on the runway at the time and place specified, guaranteed."

"…that's really stupid, Mr. Ryuk. If you're going to try to get me to cheat, you'll have to find a better method than that." Disgusted at his own gullibility, Light turned his back and walked on. They'd probably paid Ryuk to offer him that, just to see if he'd take the bait. He'd probably jeopardized his chances at winning simply by stopping.

Ryuk trotted after him, still clutching the notebook. "Come on! You don't believe me? How about I prove it?"

Almost against his will, Light stopped again.

"Tell you what. Who do you wanna eliminate first? Who's bugging you already?"

Light bit his lip. His mind flashed to the slim, wide-eyed Wammy House model who'd sat on his feet. "L…would it eliminate L?"

"Ah. About that. You have to know the real name in order to use the Death Walk. Stage names don't work."

"Well, then, it's completely useless!" Light snapped. "He's the only threat I see!"

Ryuk threw up his hands in exasperation. "Why do I have to force you to take something that could _make you win_? I told you, Light, I like you – I want to see you come out on top! You're a smart kid, you could find L's real name, no problem!"

Light reached one hand slowly toward the Death Walk, but stopped his fingers an inch away from the leather cover. "Who else knows about this?"

"Rem, one of the other judges, knows it exists but not that I'm giving it to you. She's got one, too."

"Would she use it?"

"No. She's an impartial judge. Really boring." Ryuk laughed and dangled the Death Walk from his fingertips, swinging it before Light's eyes. They followed it almost hungrily. "Tell you what – take it and test it out. Prove to yourself it works. And use it to win. Be that fashion god you wanna be so badly."

That did it. Light snatched the Death Walk out if Ryuk's hands and shoved it into his shirt. "I'll test it out," he said. "And if it works, yeah, I'll use it. But what if I have questions?"

"I'm here for ya, kid. And there's instructions inside." Ryuk took a noisy bite from an apple mysteriously procured from somewhere inside his clothing. "Good luck." He strode away, still chewing, giving Light a long-nailed pat on the shoulder as he left.

Light stared after him for a moment, then slowly began to follow at a distance. From the corner of his eye, Ryuk saw him brush his fingers against where the notebook lay hidden under his clothing and chuckled to himself.

"Models," he muttered, grinning. "They're _so_ entertaining!"


	2. Evaluations

[XD Thanks so much for the reviews! I am having too much fun plotting this out. Someone stop me.

I am taking some liberties with the format of the show for the sake of plot; and also, I haven't seen it in a little while and I don't really remember the exact format. ;; Sorry.

Oh, and Tyra Banks is awesome. Srsly. Role model lyk whoa. But this is crack, so any discrepancies in her character must be blamed on the requirements of the plot and my inability to write real people. Thank you, Mizu, for helping me get Near and L IC, btw!

The men broke left and the women right at the end of the long hallway, heading to their separate rooms. Photos from Tyra and Mogi's modeling days lined the walls, and several of the models looked at them with faint longing as they dragged their bags across the carpet.

Mello hauled his four bags into the room farthest down the men's hall and dropped them on the bed closest to the door. There was one other bed in the room, and he threw a bag on top of it to save it for Matt. Then, with a deep sigh, he dropped back on his own bed and closed his eyes. He was exhausted, jet-lagged, and filled with the deep relaxation of total and utter relief. He didn't know what he would have done if he hadn't made it this far and Near had.

Mello's head jerked up at the sound of soft footsteps – only an all-too-familiar pair of sock feet moved like that. Near stood in the doorway, his simple bag slung over one shoulder. Mello hated the way one curl stuck out farther than the others where Near had been twirling it – the lack of uniformity drove him up the wall. But the photographers always loved it. Scowling, Mello snapped, "What do you want?"

Near stepped inside, pushed Mello's bag off of the bed intended for Matt, and put his own on the coverlet, not even bothering to glance in Mello's direction.

"Get out of here," Mello growled. "Matt's sleeping there."

Near looked up coolly. "Matt's sharing a room with Mikami." He hopped on the bed, opened his bag, and began to unpack his hair-care products from their special compartment in his suitcase.

Mello's mouth opened and closed a few times before he managed to speak past the ball of anger threatening to rip its way out of his chest and beat Near's head against the tastefully-papered wall. "You—you _can't_—not here, not in _my_ room—"

"It's perfectly logical, Mello," Near said, pulling out his socks one neatly rolled-up pair at a time. "Left to your own devices, you and Matt would undoubtedly plan against me. I would rather face two weeks in this room than have to deal with any sabotage that might result." He pulled a toy robot from the bottom of the bag and set it on his dresser, establishing his permanence.

Mello stared at him for one long moment, then got up, stormed out into the empty hallway, and put his boot through the drywall.

"Ooh, Takada-san, your hair dryer looks so expensive!"

"It was. Only the best. My, don't you have the cutest clothes, Misa-san. I wish I still fit into such fashions."

"Oh, not at all, Takada-san, it's only that you're taller than me. You have such a slim waist to go with those linebacker shoulders—oh, I'm sorry, did Misa say that out loud?"

"Ah, no offense taken, Misa-san, I'm sure you were joking. It's so nice to have two Japanese models in the same room. We should be friends."

"Yes, we should. Best friends!"

"Of course. Now, forgive me, but I'd never heard of you before this competition… what agency were you with, again?"

"Sakura Modeling International. Perhaps you saw me on TV, Takada-san?"

"No, never… Sakura International, you say? Such a pretentious – I mean, prestigious, excuse me – little agency. I was with Yamayuri Corporate."

"Ah, the second-largest agency in Japan. I'm sure you must work very hard. A new bed every night, I'm sure, with such a high-end job."

"…Excuse me, Misa-san?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I only meant all the traveling you must do… it's such hard work being an international model. Misa could never do it!"

"I'm sure."

"…I'm so glad you're my best friend, Takada-san."

"As am I, Misa-san."

Matt was feeling distinctly awkward in his new quarters. He wouldn't have had a problem if Mello had been his roommate – he couldn't remember a time when Mello _hadn't_ been his roommate – but this Mikami was about the stiffest human being he'd ever met.

"So," he said. "I'm Matt. I… guess we're roommates."

Mikami nodded. His back was to Matt, and he was hanging up his clothes in perfectly-pressed rows on his side of the closet rather than scattering them on his bed as Matt had.

Matt waited for a reply. When none came he added, "You're Mikami, right?"

Mikami nodded.

"How long you been modeling?"

"Two years." Mikami laid a seemingly wrinkleless shirt onto the bed for future ironing and returned to the closet. "Before that I was a prosecuting attorney."

Matt raised an eyebrow. "Heck of a leap. What made you change your mind?"

Mikami finally turned to face Matt, fingering his collar. From beneath his starched shirt he tenderly withdrew a small pendant shaped like a winged heart.

Matt lifted his sunglasses and leaned closer to see. "The Yagami Agency logo?"

Mikami nodded, replaced the pendant, and picked up the next shirt in the folded stack. He held it gently, his eyes far away. "I saw the light," he said softly.

Matt had nothing to say to this. He sighed, flopped back on the bed, and wished more than ever that he were sleeping in Mello's room.

Light found the small, gray piece of paper on his pillow when he entered the last empty room: _"Hey, Light. Wanna start on figuring out L's real name? Here's your opportunity! Love, Ryuk."_

Light crumpled the note up in one hand threw it under the bed, teeth gritted. He wondered if he should regret making a deal with the tall, dark fashion designer if every day was going to contain surprises like _this_.

L cocked his head from across the room, where he was crouched on his bed just as he had been on Light's feet a few hours before. "Is everything quite all right, Yagami-kun?"

Light composed himself, turned around, and nodded, smiling brightly. "Of course. Please call me Light, though. Yagami-kun just sounds too formal, and we're not in Japan anymore."

The bedsprings creaked as L shifted position slightly. "Of course."

They said little more to each other for awhile; Light unpacked his three trunks, sent his father a text message, and took a picture of the room for his little sister. L simply sat, chewed his thumbnail, and thought.

Presently, L unfolded himself and hopped off the bed. "I'll see you later, Yagami-kun."

"Call me Light. Where are you going?"

"The kitchen. I'm told I eat rather eccentrically. I wanted to have a word with the cook about my meals."

"What diet are you on?"

L looked back at him quizzically. "Diet, Yagami-kun?"

He walked out, hands in his pockets, leaving Light too shocked even to correct him. _Not on a diet?! How is that _possible_? Does he have a warp-speed metabolism? Is he bulimic? Even from a distance it's clear he hasn't got an ounce of fat on him! _Suddenly, Light hated L more than ever. He nearly ripped a zipper off yanking open the suitcase pocket containing his own meal-replacement bars. _Well, it doesn't matter, _he thought. _He won't last this competition. If the stress doesn't get him, I will. I have everything he doesn't – charm, social graces, good looks, actual muscles, and now… the Death Walk!_

Light pulled up his shirt and yanked the Death Walk from the waistband of his jeans. Now that the room was empty, he could finally look at it more closely – and possibly even test it to see if it worked. Glancing quickly around to make sure that all the cameras in the room were pointed away from him – he'd memorized their locations when he'd entered the room and made sure to keep his back to them as he spoke with L – he opened it and turned to the first page.

"'_The model whose name is written in this Walk shall die…'_" he murmured. An involuntary shudder went through him. "'_This Walk will not take effect unless the user has the model's face in their mind when writing his/her name. Therefore, people sharing the same name will not be affected_.'" Fascinated, he leaned in closer, reading the rules as quickly as he could.

"_If the cause of runway accident is written within 40 seconds of writing the name, it will happen." _

"_If the cause is not specified, the model will simply break his/her neck falling off the runway."_

"_This Walk only works on models." _

"_A full name must be given. Stage names will have no effect."_

"_After writing the cause of runway accident, the details should be written in the next 6 minutes and 40 seconds..."_

An hour later, Light finished with the rules. He stared at the last page, his eyes red and dry from his furious reading. _This thing… is amazing. This is the answer to all my problems._

He felt his smirk crawling across his face and made no move to stop it. The feeling of the worn leather and paper between his hands seemed to imbue him with a raw power – the power to maim, break, burn, and kill; the power to end any model's career with just a few strokes of a pen. It was a heady, almost drunk feeling, and he found he liked it.

Still smirking, he slit the cloth lining the bottom of his suitcase and slipped the notebook into the hidden pocket, then stowed the suitcase under his bed. It was time to go meet the judges – when they would all learn the date of the first runway show.

Only four hours into the competition, and already he could not wait for elimination.

The ten filed onto the small stage before the judges' table, cameras trained on their perfectly made-up faces. Mello still looked furious; Near had no emotion on his face. Light had managed to bring his smirk under control by the time he'd met the other models outside the room, and had reverted to his usual casual, disdainful expression.

Tyra smiled at them all from her elevated place at the center of the judges' table. "Welcome to your first evaluation."

The models shifted nervously. No one had mentioned anything about an evaluation. Misa started to hyperventilate.

"This won't contribute to your chances of elimination," Tyra added, and the tension positively drained from the room. "But keep in mind that how well you implement the changes we suggest you make will definitely influence future eliminations." She let that hang for a moment.

"First, though," she said, her bright smile suddenly returning, "It's time to introduce you to the five judges who will decide how long you survive on America's Next Top Model! First—" Rem stood, towering over the table and the other judges "—we have Rem, internationally renowned Parisian fashion designer and pivotal industry player." Rem's expression did not change. She sat, her blue dreadlocks swinging.

"Next: Watari, owner of the Wammy House Modeling Agency – the largest and highest in demand at any designers' show." Watari bowed, smiling genially and giving L, Mello, Matt, and Near a little wave.

"I am Tyra Banks, former Covergirl model and host of the Tyra Show… and beside me is Ryuk, rivaling Rem for designing fame." Everyone who had not noticed it before was struck by how different the two designers' styles were, and at the same time confused by the similarities in the tight-fitting clothes and metal highlights. Ryuk grinned, waved, and sat, pulling an apple from his pocket and attacking it with devilish satisfaction.

"And finally, we have Mogi – former Yagami Agency swimsuit model." Mogi simply nodded. There was a brief awkward silence.

Tyra rescued the mood. "…Okay! Time for evaluations," she said. "You will all leave the room and come in as we call your names one at a time."

The models waited for the appropriate tense pause following these words to end and filed out into the adjoining studio room. Misa began to hyperventilate again. Matt rolled his eyes, though no one could tell under his goggles.

The door to the judges' room closed behind them, and as though a horde of mousse-eating spiders had dropped from the ceiling, every model's hands jumped to their hair simultaneously. All except L and Near pulled hand mirrors and makeup kits from mysteriously deep pockets and began frantically primping in the last seconds before the first name was called.

It was not long in coming. Less than a minute later, the set director poked his head into the room. "Mello!" he whispered. "You're up first!"

The nine parted silently to let Mello through. His face was set in a look of grim determination – he would _own_ this evaluation or die trying. L gave him a nod as he passed. Matt grabbed his shoulders right before he stepped through the door, gave him a quick once-over and a thumbs up, and pushed him forward.

Flushing slightly but encouraged nonetheless, Mello straightened his back and walked into the judges' room.

He could feel their eyes on him the instant he appeared from behind the curtain, and he shifted his walk to a confident strut, liking the authoritative sound the heels of his black boots made on the low catwalk. He stopped only a few feet in front of the judges' table and looked Tyra boldly in the eye.

She stared him up and down, unfazed by his almost-glare. "So," she said. "Mello. You're with the Wammy House, as I recall?" Mello nodded. "Hm. I like the pants – very attention-grabbing. But your whole scheme is a little monochromatic."

"I don't know," Ryuk said, chuckling. "He makes black look _good_. Honestly, could you see this guy in white?"

"I could," Rem said. "White and red would suit him well. His hair is just dark enough to take it."

Mello wished he could tell them why he would never willingly let white touch his body. He wished he could impress upon him the disgusting crawly feeling the very thought of the color sent up his back. Wearing white would make it feel like _he_ was touching him. He repressed a shudder where he stood and said nothing.

"Hm… take off the gloves," Watari advised. "They make you look impersonal." Mello pulled them off and stuffed them in his pocket. "And please tell me, do you ever accessorize beyond that rosary?"

Mello shook his head. "No. I don't need to."

Ryuk fell back in his chair laughing, his wide mouth seeming to fill the entire lower half of his face. "Would you listen to this kid! Doesn't need to accessorize… we're gonna have a field day with this one!" He calmed himself, sat up, and tossed Mello a silver chain off of the collection swinging at his hips. "You've gotta accessorize, kid. Wear that as a belt. I'm having trouble seeing where your legs begin."

Grudgingly, Mello looped the chain around his narrow hips. Tyra nodded.

"Much better. Recommendations: Get a new color into your wardrobe. Accessorize. And I'm telling you this now: You will have to wear white during this competition. Suck it up or go home."

Obviously he hadn't been able to conceal his look of revulsion as well as he'd thought he had. He nodded and forced out a "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."

"Please leave through the door to the left and wait there for the rest of the evaluations to end," Tyra said. "The rest will join you when they're through."

Mello walked out the door she had indicated and found himself in another adjoining studio room – but this one was set up with a television and speakers, both hooked up to the judges' room. On the screen, Near shuffled into the room, one finger entwined in his pale curls, still in his sock feet, and stopped before the judges' table.

Mello could not believe his luck. He would be able to see every single other model's evaluation, and not a single one had been able to see his. A grin to rival Light's spread across his face. He threw himself into one of the couches lining the small room and watched the television with greedy eyes. _They'll flay him. They'll roast him alive. They said I was monochromatic – at least my hair's a different color from my clothes! And at least I look like I know what a gym _is_—_

"I've never seen anyone pull off white like this. Have you, Rem?" Tyra said. Mello's jaw dropped.

"It's incredible," Rem said, a hint of emotion in her voice for the first time since he'd heard it. "We can't ever make him wear black. He'll have to wear white for every shoot. I just… I don't think I could bear to see him in anything else." The other judges nodded their agreement.

"I never saw a better to guy to wear your stuff, Rem," Ryuk said. "And I think he's the first guy I wouldn't care to see in mine."

Mello did not notice the gouges his fingernails were tearing in the upholstery of the couch.

"The lack of accessories is bold," Watari said. "A definite statement. And his face is so high-fashion."

"Almost angelic," Tyra agreed. "It's not often that such a round face shape is that well-suited to high fashion."

The sound of Mello's labored breathing was almost audible from where Near stood, impassive, still with his finger in his hair. "He slouches!" Mello bellowed at the screen. "He fucking slouches! He's ten pounds overweight! He wouldn't know silver from cubic zirconium! He washes his hair with fucking _V05_! _How can you call him a model_?"

But none of the judges heard him. Rather, they dealt him a final, crushing blow. Mogi spoke up.

"Great," he said.

Mello buried his face in his hands and screamed.


End file.
